


Nose

by telera



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Dark images, Drabble, F/M, Menstruation reference, Nothing too squicky or explicit, Scents & Smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telera/pseuds/telera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal does have a very keen sense of smell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nose

Hannibal Lecter had a keen sense of smell. Actually, his gourmet creations could only be said to be complete with the exquisite yet delicate aroma of the ingredients. The tangy sweetness of English cranberries, the fragance of Mediterranean green figs and the fleshy, earthy taste of French goose foie. Cooking was an art, as was studying the mind. As was killing. 

But if smell was unjustly neglected in cuisine -and how many times the textures were perfect yet the smell was discordant- the same happened with bodies. Dead or alive. Will's aftershave was a desperate attempt to cover the smell of fear and insomnia. It tainted his whole body blue, cold, despite the many showers he took a day.

Alana's perfume was also ill-chosen; it felt like an attempt to assert a strength of character she had, but which she intimately doubted. She should really leave that sandalwood tone. Musk would suit her better.

Bella's aroma masked nothing, and presented her as she truly was; raw and rotting inside. It was a pity, because the smell was exquisite. Ethereal. Ephemeral. Like her life.

Jack's deodorant was cheap and ugly.

But as Abigail entered her office, Hannibal realized she smelled different today. It took him a while to find out what exactly had changed about her. Too much shampoo in her hair this morning? A different eyeliner, or was it maybe a new brand of mascara? Perhaps a different handkerchief around her neck. Layer by layer, Hannibal peeled Abigail's contradictory smells off as he would peel a particularly stubborn artichoke in his kitchen. 

At last he found out. It was cleverly covered and disguised, but blood was unmistakable. A faint trace, probably just a scratch. A lip sore? A blister under a band-aid? No, this blood smelled darker and richer. Dead. Then it him. She was menstruating.

Hannibal's eyes lighted up. The gift of the eternal wound, always bleeding and always healthy. The majesty of life and dead fighting for supremacy in her body, distilling a unique essence that he could almost taste in his mouth. Velvety. Full of light. 

Hannibal invited Abigail home that evening, because her perfect, delectable smell deserved the fragant dinner only he could prepare. Vintage red wine. Pomgranate coulis. And a crispy, juicy liver he would need to find... somewhere.


End file.
